


The Crown Princess of Gaaldine

by AJHall



Series: The Queen of Gondal [1]
Category: Bronte juvenilia, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU; Fusion; Arranged Marriage; Royal Wedding fic for the life-long republican, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJHall/pseuds/AJHall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dying King of Gondal lays a solemn trust on John Watson, court physician; at all costs to keep the fourteen year-old Crown Princess Charis out of the clutches of the corrupt Heir of Gondal.  Which means arranging her marriage to Sherlock, heir to the neighbouring throne of Gaaldine, Gondal's traditional enemy.  John escorts the Crown Princess to her wedding, acutely aware of the pressure of history and unspoken - unspeakable - secrets which he had thought buried forever.</p><p>A downloadable ebook version of this story can be found <a href="http://ajhall.shoesforindustry.net/ebooks/34/ajhall_the_crown_princess_of_gaaldine/"> here </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexin/gifts).



> While Gondal, Angria and Gaaldine are creations of the Bronte children, this particular version of these countries owes rather more to the Marlows' reinvention of Gondal and Angria in Antonia Forest's _Peter's Room_
> 
> Advisory: if historically it could have happened during any given sixteenth or seventeenth century European monarchy, it probably will happen here. This applies in particular to royal sex-lives.

"You cannot possibly be serious," John said, before recollecting that the fragile figure in the ornate canopied bed in front of him was not simply his patient but his King, making the words he had spoken technically, treason and (far from technically) death to him as a result.

Ambrosine XVII, Lord of Gondal and the Isles, laughed palely up at him from amid the massed pillows.

"A man in my position cannot eschew seriousness forever. Indeed, some days I feel one good hearty guffaw would blow me clean away… And if a king cannot be serious about the marriage of his only child, when may he cast levity aside?"

"The Princess Charis," John persisted doggedly, with a strong sense that (having gone so far) he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, "is _fourteen years old_."

"And, therefore, by canon law – supported by the testimony of her attendant ladies – has been of marriageable age for quite two years. Some of my advisors have not been slow to draw that fact to my attention. Over the last six months, those advisors have become increasingly importunate."

The stench of the sickroom seemed, somehow, unbearable. Which was, of course, ridiculous; who was he, John Watson, court physician, to be repulsed by the combined odour of human mortality and _realpolitik_?

With considerable effort, though waving away all attempts at assistance, the King raised himself onto one elbow.

"Tell me, John, were she before us now, what advice do you think the Queen would give?"

The room whirled. Never since the night when all that skill, knowledge – yes, together with love, gratitude and abject terror – could do had proved inadequate under his labouring hands had the King mentioned the Queen to him. And never in connection with Princess Charis.

Still, John had shaped his life for years around one profound truth. Whatever he might once have been, he was now the King's man, until death. And, unlike others who classed themselves as such, he owed his King uncompromising honesty (on everything except the question the King had never asked, a nagging voice reminded him. Fifteen years ago. _A rose tossed through a window, the soft breath of lilac in the twilight_ ).

"The Queen's grace would say," John stated, head back and feet placed with military precision, "that it would be far better for the Lady Charis to go to the bed of the Crown Prince of Gaaldine, now, with her father's blessing and all the diplomatic protection his best counsellors may devise, than be dragged to the bed of the Crown Prince of Gondal in six months' time, over her royal father's still breathing but barely animate body."

His king eyed him from amid the pillows. "Do you know," he said conversationally, "had you not been the man I know you to be – entirely prosaic, completely foreign to any breath of the uncanny – I could swear you had mediumistic talents. Felicia's very words and trick of speech! So you give me six months, do you? For a modest man, John, I'd say you flattered yourself."

John dipped his head. "Not a modest man, your Grace. A betting man. Could you do your subject the inestimable favour of surviving until the summer solstice, your Captain of the Guard would find himself remarkably impoverished in consequence."

The King had, John reflected, been fortunately pessimistic about the effects of a good guffaw on his weakened constitution. Still, his face grew serious again moments later.

"Tell me, John, which of your junior colleagues – of those whose talents you otherwise esteem – do you dislike most heartily?"

"Richardson." The word came automatically, almost without thought.

"Richardson." The King rolled the name round on his tongue, as in happier days he might have done with vintage port or fine oysters. "Quite so. Then I charge you with breaking the good news to him. From tonight, he is to be considered the King's physician. For as long as he can make the post last."

"But –"

"Don't mistake me, John. This is not a dismissal. Consider it rather a reassignment." The King's teeth flashed yellow as he bared thin, blue lips in a smile which recalled the grimace of a fatally wounded wolf, at bay amid the snowdrifts. "You are now part of Princess Charis's household; her confidential physician and senior advisor. You escort her to her wedding with Prince Sherlock of Gaaldine. Pack quickly; your party leaves within the hour."

………………….

"Do you know these mountains?" she asked. The stars danced in the thin air above them, clustered diamonds on the midnight-blue velvet vault of heaven. They had shone like that on the night of the final ambush, the one that had ended his soldiering career, the night Murray died to save his worthless skin.

She tipped back her head to look at him, the firelight dancing across her face. She was his princess, his charge. She had asked for an answer. Words must be found.

He swallowed. "We campaigned up here. In the last war with Gaaldine. A tough campaign. They cut our supply lines; we survived by eating our foundered horses."

And by eating other things, too; not fit for a lady's knowing.

She exhaled into the bone-cold air; her breath condensed, for a moment, on the furs in which she was wrapped and then froze, instantly, into little spikes.  
"How did you cook the meat?"

"We didn't." The words – too quickly uttered – fell burning into the silence of the campsite like small drops of vitriol. After a pause he added, awkwardly, "I'm sorry, your grace."

"For what? For telling the truth?" She rose unsteadily to her feet, still robed in the fur blanket, looking down the pass, down towards the plain of Gaaldine. "I think – down there – I will have a great need of truth. And little chance of finding it. Be true to me, John, please."

"Always," he said, and heard a younger man uttering the same word, to another woman, long ago. Also by firelight, come to think of it. A word which had, once, brought him here, to the high border country between Gondal and Gaaldine, to which now, it seemed, Fate was hell-bent on returning him.

And then the shadows around the camp-fire rose up like wolves in the night-time; he was throwing water on the fire, dousing the torches in snow-drifts, kicking the Princess under the fur rugs for camouflage, drawing his dagger with his right, his short-sword with his left, twisting in unforgotten patterns, carving death wherever he went, hearing his companions scream as they died, knowing they were too few, pitifully too few to fight this attack, whoever they might be, whether mountain bandits or the Heir of Gondal's men.

He tasted defeat with every blow.

He had failed Charis and the King.

He had failed the Queen, the greatest hurt of all; he must meet her on the other side of death, his failure naked on his face. But he would not come to her yet; not until his enemies mounted up before him – he ducked beneath a spear-point, thrust up, heard the satisfying gurgle of enemy life extinguished; twisted, stabbed again - the old, familiar battle smell of blood and shit – the smell he would take into eternity.

Fighting every step of the way, he fell back towards the ashes of the campfire, felt frantically amid the discarded furs, heard a muted shriek of terror at his approach, cursed himself for an idiot –

"Charis?

"John?" Gulped, hurried, but still in command of herself, thank God. He passed her a dagger he had snatched from one of the fallen; sticky and clotted, of course. No matter. _Her mother's daughter._

"Anything gets past me, use that."

 _Death before dishonour. My last gift to you._

"Gaaldine!"

Torches bursting across the night like demented comets; swords clashing, daggers sparking –

Something swatted the side of his head; he fell forward. He could only have been unconscious for a few seconds, but when he awoke –

"Move a step forward, and he dies."

Charis's voice, with a growl in it which put him in mind of a hunting leopardess. He twisted his head upwards, his eyes and brain together protesting at the brightness of the torches ringing them. Amid a tangle of wolf- and bear- pelts he saw his princess – his charge – the delicate fourteen year old virgin whom he had sworn a solemn oath to protect - her right hand twisted in a mop of black curls and the edge of the blade he had given her pressed against an impossibly pale throat.

The boy had been sent as a hostage to the court of Gondal during one of the endless series of fractious, half-hearted truces which had marked the dying years of his grandfather's reign. He had been not much older than Charis, then; sulky, withdrawn and wild. The intervening two decades had changed him less than John had imagined possible.

"Lower your dagger, your grace," John said, clearing his throat. "Everything's fine."

………………….

"Our outer perimeter –"

"Your outer perimeter," the Prince said flatly, "was bought. Twice over. If Anderson had only sent his signal earlier instead of flailing around waiting for some spurious confirmation which was never going to be forthcoming I could have mobilised this escort party hours ago and you wouldn't be down seven men and two women. Though, on the bright side at least Anderson managed to get his own stupid throat slashed in the process, which saves the coffers of both Gondal and Gaaldine. Plus anyone else he might have been taking bribes from along the way."

"Excuse me." Charis rose to her feet, her hand pressed hard against her mouth, and vanished unsteadily through the flaps of the tent. The Prince looked after her with an expression of bemusement which, John thought with a wholly inappropriate impulse to giggle, was almost unbearably familiar, even if he hadn't seen it in nearly twenty years.

"Now what? After all, she insisted on seeing the dead bodies herself, even though I warned her what it would be like, especially the women, and if that didn't upset her –"

"There's a difference," John said, "between _exercising almost inhuman self-control to pay one's respects to those who have died in your defence_ and _not being upset_. If you are serious in your intention of marrying Princess Charis, I respectfully suggest you learn it. Your grace."

"Or what? She'll kill me?" His hand went up, almost unconsciously, to trace the thin red line which disfigured the smooth skin of his throat, where the leather jerkin gaped open. "Admittedly, the history of Gaaldine doesn't lack instances of princesses taking the direct route out of uncongenial marriages, but attempting it before the ceremony is, at least – interesting."

His tone was light but something twisted in John's heart.

"Not uncongenial," he protested.

"Oh, be realistic, John. My feelings don't need sparing. How could it be anything but, for her? At least I have the good fortune that she seems to possess a concept of royal duty that seems well-nigh bottomless."

He hunched his shoulders, staring into the depths of the fire. He did not speak again, but the intensity of his isolation was a dismissal in itself. John sighed, rose stiffly to his feet, and headed to the tent, from which muffled sobs were emanating. That, at least, was a problem he might do something to assuage.


	2. Chapter 2

The absence of Annis and Marguerite hurt like a physical wound below Charis's ribs. The men-at-arms had been a grief; she had known some of them for as long as she could remember. She had been carried on their shoulders to watch military parades; picked up by them and comforted after falls from her pony in the Palace gardens. Though John had offered, she had insisted on writing the letters to their families herself, only checking the drafts through with him to ensure she was not making some horrific breach of military protocol.

Still, death in defence of his charge was, at least, part of the job a man-at-arms signed up for. Not a lady of the bedchamber. Guilt seared her, like a brand across bare flesh. She recalled Annis, pleading with her to find someone else to accompany her to Gaaldine; she had a new niece and a sickly sister, and apparently could hardly be spared at home. And yet Charis had still sobbed and pleaded and flattered and bribed, calling her indispensible, promising her that it would only be for three months or so, just long enough to see her settled in, assuring her she'd be home before Easter –

Now Annis's body – the broken, almost unrecognisable thing that had once been her body - would be home for Christmas, but her spirit would wander forever lost in the high passes between Gondal and Gaaldine.

And it was all her fault. If only she hadn't insisted.

Leaving grief aside (if such a thing could ever be managed) the loss of Marguerite and Annis had left Charis dangerously exposed. Take this morning, which had found her seated in a high withdrawing room amid a selection of ladies of the Gaaldine court who, Charis had no doubt, could be as lethal as mountain bandits where they chose, if more indirect in their tactics.

She bent over her embroidery frame (white-on-white work did not seem to have reached Gaaldine yet; she felt a feeble flicker of superiority as she plied her needle). Marguerite would have soon winkled out the actual pecking order within this room, as opposed to the hierarchy of formal ranks and roles which Charis had absorbed on introduction, dutifully attentive, and mentally filed using the tricks Papa had taught her from the earliest moment she had been allowed to venture out from the nursery wing into the wider Palace.

Marguerite, for example, would have been able to tell Charis if she'd guessed right about Lady Anthea, who sat in the window seat, barely pretending to work on the charcoal sketch of an alabaster vase on which she was ostensibly engaged. From the blend of deference and barely restrained bitchiness the senior-ranking ladies displayed to Lady Anthea, who met everything with a secret, superior smile, Charis _thought_ she must be the acknowledged mistress of the King.

Marguerite would have had everything sorted and ready for her by bedtime; length of the liaison, its stability, likely rivals, any children and their treatment. More to the point, she would have already have made inroads into compiling the same information about the Crown Prince's own unofficial arrangements. Whatever form those took. Charis's thoughts slid unhappily back towards the prospect of the night after next, and the vaguely imagined terrors it presented.

A blast of cold air from the doorway fortunately arrested that downward spiral. The new arrival was John, looking irritable and a little shorter than his real height, as he always did on the rare occasions when protocol forced him into formal court robes. She paused. John. He might well know who the Gaaldine King's principal mistress was – Marguerite had told her men usually did know that sort of thing, even when they pretended contempt for gossip. If she asked him to find out about the Crown Prince, he might – no, certainly would – be shocked, but he had promised her honesty, the night before last, and the world knew that the stars would turn from their courses before John would betray his pledged word .

But then he was in front of her, and his face made her question die on her lips.

"Your grace," he said, "we are bidden to an audience with the Lord Chamberlain of Gaaldine. I – do not believe it would be politic to delay."

…………………….

"This is a calculated insult to the Princess," John said, doggedly. "I have attended her from her earliest years; I am able to satisfy all proper enquiries the King of Gaaldine may make. The idea of her being subjected to a formal examination –"

The gentle touch on his arm silenced him. Charis took a step forward, her chin lifted.

"We understand the constraints placed on the King in this matter. Where private persons are free to take such matters on trust, princes have to answer to their people. I have nothing to hide; therefore, objecting would be absurd."

His gut clenched at her gallantry. The Lord Chamberlain – his pompous, jowly face almost too tempting a target for his punch – smiled his satisfaction.

"Then why delay matters? Dr Milverton is, fortunately, at leisure to attend the Princess."

The Lord Chamberlain stepped back to allow the Gaaldine court physician to take centre stage. The words John had been about to utter, to the effect that, while he had as much professional pride as the next man, his still remained a world in which the convenience of princesses outweighed that of physicians, died on his lips. He felt Charis's grip convulse on his arm, was close enough to hear her gasp of shock.

Dr Milverton's skin was parchment-yellow, clinging to a form so spare of flesh he seemed like a mummified corpse. His lips bared in a smile which appeared to comprise equal parts lechery and contempt.

"It will be my pleasure," he said, and left no-one in the chamber in the slightest doubt that he meant it.

A new voice – utterly familiar, wholly unexpected – cut in. "Dr Milverton's condescension, as ever, overwhelms us all."

John jerked his head up, towards the garishly dressed courtiers by the far door of the long audience chamber. They parted before the Prince, who was dressed with almost indecent simplicity for the occasion, in plain dark jerkin, breeches and high, huntsman's boots. His smile glittered with an insincerity which matched the court physician's own.

"Fortunately, we need not trespass on his valuable time. I have just left my brother's chambers –"

"I had understood the King's grace to be engaged this morning on a review of the Household Cavalry –" The Lord Chamberlain came to an abrupt stop as the Prince swivelled his head to favour him with the full blast of his attention. His eyes were splinters of ice. John found himself feeling for the sword which – in deference to protocol – he had left at the chamber door. Charis pressed close against his side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tighter yet.

"Your information is outdated." The Prince paused for a moment, just long enough for that to sink in. "It appears the Deputy Comptroller of the Household received warning from some unknown quarter in the early hours of this morning of a likely investigation of rumoured scandals relating to the sale of promotions and appointments in the Cavalry and vacated his position at short notice by way of the window. The only reviews taking place this morning are those to be carried out by the confidential clerks of account. After all, who knows how far – or how high – the poison of corruption may have spread?"

The smile accompanying _that_ remark cut like a naked blade. The Lord Chamberlain gulped, fish-like. The Prince turned his attention to John.

"My brother and I are in complete agreement on this."

Somewhere in the crowded audience chamber someone – protected by the anonymity of the mass – gave a low whistle of scepticism. Part of John's mind filed it away, essential orientation for the world in which he now found himself. The Prince continued as if no interruption had occurred.

"This was not part of the original marriage treaty. That this suggestion has now been raised in Council is a failure on my part."

The Lord Chamberlain opened his mouth to speak; without even glancing in his direction the Prince cut him off with an uplifted hand. Despite himself, John found himself transfixed by the sheer grace of the movement.

"Please, don't try to spare my feelings." He turned to face Charis, his stance that of a supplicant. "My lady. You and your party were subjected to an outrage the night before last. You lost -" He paused, and gulped, visibly. Sweat stood out on his pale brow. "In the desperate defence of your person, you lost seven gallant men and two of your closest lady companions. _That should not have happened_. The perpetrators were mountain bandits, but it occurred within Gaaldine's borders. Gaaldine's protection failed you. I take that matter extremely personally."

John blinked. By his own reckoning – he and the senior armsman had discussed the proposed position of the campsite over several hours and many miles of hard riding – they had been quite five miles inside Gondal when the bandits attacked. He had not been good at geography at school, but he knew the line of that border very well indeed. During his lifetime, the border had been re-drawn in blood many times. Some of that blood had been his.

And some had been Sherlock's. In a war Gaaldine had never known he'd fought. Must never know he'd fought. Two nights ago, John's words to Charis had been true, but incomplete. His last campaign had been in these hills, but so also his first campaign.

When he'd been twenty-one, and mad with love.

He lifted his eyes, to meet a steady, knowing, clear grey gaze.

"Accordingly," the Prince said, unblinking, "the concerns expressed by members of our Council touch very much on my personal honour. As my brother has reminded me. So, while we are both grateful to Dr Milverton, it falls to me to make my personal physician available to assure Princess Charis she has taken no permanent hurt as a result. Sarai?"

 _Sarai_?

Like a vision from another world she strode through the audience chamber; dull plaids and unpolished leathers folding around her slight, unimpressive form.

John turned to meet the mischief in those warm, dancing eyes. She stretched onto her tiptoes and planted a dry, chaste kiss just below his left cheekbone.

"It's good to see you again," she said.

"You too," John said, meaning it with all his heart. Over to the left Dr Milverton was looking daggers and the Lord Chamberlain like a man in a crowded tavern who suddenly realises his pocket-book has vanished from his person. He chose his next words with exquisite care and pitched his voice to carry. "But – why aren't you still in Angria? We've hardly been able to keep a medical student in Gondal for three years; the best of them all trekked off to the University in Glasstown purely for the privilege of attending your lectures."

She wrinkled her nose. "Angria, I'm afraid, is currently enmeshed in an outbreak of superstition which they choose to characterise as _enlightenment_. Oh, I was all for improving the quality of tuition at the University when the issue was first raised. But _raising quality_ turned out to mean _only allowing those to lecture at the University who are qualified to matriculate there_. And then the University imposed a rule that only those eligible to take minor orders in the Church might matriculate. And then the Church - "

She spread her hands eloquently. John filled in the gap.

"They quoted St Paul?"

"And the rest. So I was thrown back on old, bad habits, and forced to soldier once more."

"Dear Sarai. Always so tactful." The Prince's amused face took the sting from his words. He took Charis's hand and raised it to his lips. "Your grace. May I commend you to the care of my physician?"

Charis swept down to the floor in a curtsey whose grace and sophistication took John completely by surprise, so used was he to the puppyish, unselfconscious child and the gawky adolescent she had become.

"I am quite at leisure. Within the next hour best suits my convenience."

………………..

He had been on edge for over two turns of the glass when the summons finally came. An uncommunicative man-at-arms led him to the Prince's quarters.

"Well?" he said, as soon as he was sure they were alone. "Where is the Princess?"

Sherlock looked up from the mess of papers and mechanical contrivances on his desk. "Sarai told her about the work she's been doing at the Poor Persons' Lying In Hospital, so Princess Charis asked to be taken on a tour. As the Crown Princess, naturally she'll be expected to take a keen interest in the city's charities. The most censorious of the court ladies could hardly raise objection to such an outing, and since the Princess has not set a foot outside the palace in three days, I can quite see why the prospect of a change of scene might appeal to her."

Frankly, John could think of few things less appealing to any young girl, especially two days before her wedding night, than witnessing first-hand the frequently fatal and always bloody outcomes of child-bearing and miscarriage. On the other hand, perhaps that was rather the point. Charis perhaps had fears about the physical side of things. Perhaps the chance of meeting a woman who was also a trained physician had struck her as a golden opportunity. And Sarai, thank God, would have the tact and persistence to draw it out, if that were truly the case.

He prayed it might be so. In the absence of her ladies in waiting – in the absence, God, of her mother – the only other candidate to whom she might address such questions would be him. And for all sorts of reasons, he devoutly hoped that particular cup might pass from him.

"I think, by the way," Sherlock drawled, "she really wanted to find out whether Sarai is my _maîtresse-en-titre_ and, if not, who is." He tapped a bundle of papers on his desk impatiently. "Honestly. I cannot imagine what my brother's intelligence gatherers at the Court of Gondal can possibly expect we're paying them for, judging from this. The woman Annis was one of ours, by the way. But also in the pay of the Heir of Gondal. If the Princess grieves too badly, feel free to tell her Annis was no friend of hers, however much she may have played the part."

John nodded. King Ambrosine had known of the Gaaldine link – one of the reasons he'd insisted Lady Annis be of the party. Not that she'd also been bought by the Heir. For one sick moment he wondered whether it had been Annis who'd sent word of their route to those who had ambushed them, and whether she'd known before the end that she'd sealed her own death warrant in doing so.

"I'll guarantee your reports – if they come from honest spies, at least – will show the Princess to be anything a prince might want in his consort," he said doggedly.

Sherlock snorted. He rose, went to a nearby table, and poured wine into the goblets which stood ready before John could demur. The harsh, tannic red from the dry Northern slopes of Angria, of course. No doubt his memory of John's other preferences remained equally acute.

"Actually, these reports impugn the Princess's honour in that regard most profoundly."

"Then they lie!"

 

"Quite so. To my own certain knowledge." He turned, his eyes glittering. "Our agents told us volumes about the Princess's skill at embroidery, her talents on the lute, and her ability to sing in three languages. Nowhere do they mention that she could finger Lady Anthea as the head of my brother's Palace intelligence network within two hours – details are irrelevant, the essential relationships she had down pat – or that, taken by surprise, at night, by torchlight, untrained and during her first experience of combat, she identified the commander of the attacking force and took decisive action to swing the encounter in her side's favour. In short, that she's level-headed, courageous and ruthlessly competent. And our agents ignored every sign of that talent in favour of _embroidery._ "

He pushed the stack of paper onto the floor. "Great as my respect is for King Ambrosine and, especially, for the late lamented Queen Felicia, I'd never have credited the house of Ancona could sprout such a bud. And for all our agents' help, I'd have been in ignorance of her abilities to this day. We should have been negotiating for this marriage two years ago."

John blenched, but held his voice steady. "Two years ago, his grace King Ambrosine was in excellent health. And engaged to be married to her lady the Princess Dowager of Angria. Also in excellent health, in her early thirties, of proven fecundity."

"Arsenic," the Crown Prince drawled. "Undermines the strongest constitution. King Ambrosine, though – I take it his decline is natural?"

John nodded. A patient's confidence, be he beggarman or king, must be kept sacrosanct at all cost; that he'd learned from his father, before even he'd started his medical apprenticeship. But the King had given him leave to use his judgement, do whatever he needed to keep Charis safe. "A malignant growth. Slow, but inevitable. Six months – perhaps more. Not less, unless the Heir becomes impatient."

"It might be enough. Will have to be enough."

"And the Princess?" John had almost forgotten how infuriating he had always found Sherlock's ability to find priorities which were quite different to those which normal people concentrated on.

"What about her?"

"I take it Sarai's examination showed these infamous rumours about the Princess's chastity to be baseless? And the King of Gaaldine has been so informed?"

Sherlock looked faintly puzzled. "Well, I expect she didn't find anything untoward. The whole business was whipped up by a faction within the court in the pay of the Heir of Gondal. Quite ridiculous. It forced me to spring a trap I'd been preparing for months, before I could be sure half the targets were inside it. My brother is equally annoyed; I cannot imagine the Lord Chamberlain had a comfortable audience with him this morning. Anyway, I daresay Sarai would have mentioned it if there'd been anything amiss. Probably."

"You mean you don't actually care if the Princess Charis is a virgin or not?" John gulped, and added, "Which, of course, she is."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, whatever the state of her hymen, it isn't going to change the position of the land border between Gondal and Gaaldine, is it?"

For a moment he sat, mouth open. Sherlock topped up his goblet and smiled; the old, hauntingly familiar, sidelong smile.

"Did you not read that treaty you brought with you?"

"Of course I read it!"

"In that case, what did you understand by clause seven?"

"Gaaldine's pledge not to cross the borders of Gondal under arms, save where their aid be invoked in defence of King Ambrosine and the lawful heirs of the house of Ancona? How difficult is that to understand?"

"The traditional wording of such clauses adds the words 'as recognised by the laws and traditions of the realm of Gondal'. But not this one. Remind me, John, how I came to the court of Gondal as a young man?"

"As a hostage for the good behaviour of your grandfather, before he was succeeded by your uncle, the – oh."

"You see now, don't you? My uncle the late king, you were going to say. My mother's brother. Who was in turn succeeded – quite properly and in full accordance with the laws of Gaaldine – by my brother Mycroft. This land does not and has never had any restriction on inheritance down the female line. Which means that by clause seven of the treaty signed by his grace the King of Gondal, I and my brother are pledged – should our aid be invoked – to lend "such strength and valour as may conveniently be afforded" to the support of King Ambrosine's lawful heir. Who, by _our_ law – none other being specified in the treaty – is Princess Charis. Who will, in less than forty-eight hours, be my wife. Now, John, do you understand what the game really is? And are you in or out?"

"In," he muttered, dry-mouthed. There could be no other answer. He recalled his memories of the Heir of Gondal; lascivious, rapacious, utterly without conscience. He had said goodbye to all the life he'd known on less than an hour's notice simply to save Charis from that hooded-eyed, malignant presence. It had not occurred to him that in saving Charis he could save Gondal, too.

"We'll drink to that, then." The Prince had refilled their goblets before he could stop him. He raised his high, tossing back the wine, and wiping his mouth on the fine linen napkin the Prince handed to him.

It occurred to him, afterwards, that the wine stains on the linen had looked dusk-dark, as if they had been blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Charis pressed herself down between the fine linen sheets, listening to the ragged and increasingly raucous singing from the banqueting hall below, and prayed for death.

She was not sure when the nervous, butterfly fluttering in her insides with which she had awakened that morning had turned into a sodden lump of dread. Perhaps during the ceremony in the Cathedral, when the minor changes from what she had expected from the liturgy had gradually amounted into a major sense of wrongness, even affront, while the Crown Prince stood beside her, cold-faced and unresponsive, intoning the responses with a bored sense of propriety and – as she had been taught to recognise – perfect pitch.

The masque and the wedding banquet following it were a sick blur. Being taken away from the meal by a posse of giggling, unfamiliar ladies – God, how she'd missed Marguerite, or even Sarai, who had made it clear, earlier in the day, she lacked the rank to play any part in the evening's events – had felt like a relief. Until they had taken her to this cold, large, unfamiliar bed and left her here.

The ragged sound of drunken singing was getting closer. The Blessed Virgin was cutting her intervention very fine. If, indeed, she planned to intervene at all. She curled down around herself, tight and unmoving.

They must be in the ante-chamber now; every crude verse, every raw comment came through the door as if it were paper. Dear God! There could be no-one there below the rank of an Earl, and yet her father had had grooms flogged for daring to let slip in her presence profanities not half so crude as those which were pouring from their lips.

The door burst open. The blaze of torches spilled across the threshold. For a moment it seemed as if an entire raucous mob were about to spill into the room. Charis pressed back into the bed.

"Thank you, gentlemen. You have carried out your duties to the letter. From here, I accept; I am on my own. Good night."

The mob on the threshold fell back before that commanding tone. The door shut. Only the dim light of the nightlight illuminated event.

The Crown Prince was here. Whatever was supposed to happen could not be postponed any longer. From amid the heavy brocaded bed-coverings she looked up at her – husband – she supposed she had to call him, and tried to assume an air of shy but welcoming acquiescence.

He lit a taper from the night-light, and stalked about the chamber until he had lit candles on every sconce in the room. The light from behind betrayed his essential nakedness beneath the fine linen of his nightshirt.

She had read romances – very (it occurred to her now) anodyne romances. The heroines of such romances no doubt had had to pass through this moment. After the end of the book, unfortunately; none of the authors of such romances ever provided any practical guidance. Her eyes prickled with unshed tears.

The Crown Prince went to a cupboard and produced a bottle of wine and two goblets. He raised an eyebrow by way of question. Dry mouthed, Charis nodded. He poured, and handed her a brimming goblet. The wine was harsh; stronger than she was used to, and very welcome. Her sense that she might disgrace herself by either bursting into tears or whimpering receded.

"Biscuits?" he enquired. "You didn't eat anything to speak of at the banquet."

"Nor did you." They had been seated by side though she had been almost too overwhelmed to attempt conversation with either the Crown Prince or the King, and been unspeakably grateful that John had assumed the conversational burden for them both.

"I rarely do. My brother's cooks cook to my brother's tastes, few of which I share."  
His smile made him look, suddenly, a great deal younger. "Also, the number of people at Court interested in poisoning me is even higher at present than usual."

She did let out a small squeak at that. He raised his goblet in a faint gesture of salute.

"I wouldn't worry too badly. Plenty of people have made similar pledges and here I still am…I hope you aren't a great enthusiast for mushrooms?"

"I cannot bear them," Charis said. Her world was spinning; whatever she had imagined happening on one's wedding night had not included chatter about food tastes. Or the risk of poisoning.

"Lucky. I'm very partial to them myself. But not in the Palace. That really would be giving hostages to fortune. I have to wait until I go hunting and can see them picked before my eyes. Do you hunt?"

Her throat closed up. "Before – with my father –" and then her eyes filled, unstoppably, and the worst happened. She dropped her head into hands and howled.

"Oh, damn." The Crown Prince's voice was very close above her head. A square of fine linen was thrust into her hand. She heard the sound of an hour-glass being turned on the night-stand. "Less than a quarter of the sand run through. I owe John five thaler. He said I'd have you in tears before half a turn of the glass." A pause. "That, by the way, was a bet about my character, not yours, in case you were wondering. You were bearing up commendably, all things considered."

"'M sorry." Charis blew her nose on the linen square.

"Don't apologise. I'd forgotten what an enthusiast King Ambrosine was for the chase. Hence your speed and skill with the knife, up in the mountains. He'd shown you how to finish a wounded beast."

"I didn't mean – "

"Yes, you did, and quite right too. If you pull a knife on a man, he's got to believe you mean to use it or he'll certainly disarm you. You held the blade right against all the major blood vessels – which someone has obviously taught you to find – and had me convinced my last hour had come, barring a miracle. Then John spoke up and I knew I owed a load of incense to the Blessed Virgin."

"You knew him?" On the one hand it was a relief if her husband and dearest friend and counsellor got along, but on the other – Her father the king had told her nothing of such a friendship, which meant he had known nothing. A secret alliance between John and the royal house of Gaaldine, then. The cold pit of despair flooded her once more. It was as her father had said. "Trust no-one."

A wiry arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Don't worry. There's not gold enough in Gaaldine to buy him. Mycroft's tried."

She turned, blindly, pressing herself against the fine linen of his nightshirt, the odd, flat hardness of his chest. The grip round her shoulders tightened, his other hand came up to stroke her hair. The Prince's soothing, conversational tone continued.

"They sent me to Gondal as a hostage in my grandfather's time. Without John, I'd have died of sheer misery."

"How – how old were you?"

"Fifteen when it started. Seventeen when it ended. My grandfather died – luckily, since he was about to cross the border under arms, which would have put both me and King Ambrosine in an exceptionally awkward spot – he certainly didn't want to have me publically executed, but kings can't always do what they want. My uncle assumed the throne, called back the armies, signed a peace treaty and I could go home. Except I was less sure where home was, by that time. I'd like to go back."

That casual phrase unleashed her deepest fear, one she had dared hint to no-one.

"I think – I think when the Heir becomes king – I do not think he will allow me to pass Gondal's borders again. Nor would it be safe to. When my father dies I will lose Gondal forever. I – oh, I wish I'd been born a boy!"

"Well, that would have put a very different complexion on tonight, certainly." The Prince's voice was a low, amused purr. "Which, by the way, is one of those jokes you no longer have to pretend not to understand, now you're a married woman. Though if you are genuinely puzzled by anything of the sort you could do worse than ask John. He taught me all the filthiest ones I know. Well, apart from Sarai's story about the regimental camel and the step-ladder." He paused; his light tone altered. "Another relevant point is that, had you been born a boy, one of us might have ended up having to kill the other. Which – barring accidents – has happily now been averted. As a woman and my wife the armies of Gaaldine are at your back, not at your throat."

"I have an army?"

"Strictly speaking, _my brother_ has an army. Think of it as an army-in-law. Anyway, Charis, about tonight."

Her heart gave a sudden leap. She had allowed herself – not to forget, precisely, but to thrust it down below the surface of her mind. Now it came back with full force. His arm around her shoulder felt, suddenly, intimidating. It was thin but all muscle. He must be very strong.

He must have felt her tense. "Ssh. Truly, I've no intention of hurting you."

She managed a small, acknowledging sniffle. He dropped his arm and sat back amid the bedclothes, looking steadily at her.

"Charis; I have been an exile at a foreign court. And I cannot, honestly, think of anything which would have made my first few weeks in Gondal more hellish. But, if I could have thought of something, it might well have included being required to go to bed with someone not of my own choosing, twice my age and with whom I had barely exchanged five sentences of conversation. This has – for reasons of State – to remain between the two of us. But I have no intention of doing anything more than talk to you tonight, and not in the future until we've had a chance to get to know one another. And that means as long as you want."

The relief was so intense she thought she might faint. Scarcely as it had rippled through her, though, hard reality followed.

"We can't. We won't be able to get away with it. The servants – the bedmakers –"

She ground to a halt, bright scarlet.

The Prince grinned at her. "So Sarai did pass on some useful information, did she? I hoped she might. But really, Charis, I'd hate to start our married life with your underestimating my brains. I can assure you, I am more than capable of faking the sheets to convince the most sceptical bedmaker and whoever's paying her for the information."

His utter confidence was compelling. She smiled; her first real smile in ages. He smiled back; confiding, mischievous.

"So, now that's settled, suppose you tell me something useful about yourself? All they sent me when the treaty was first proposed was a painting which seemed to have been assembled from a random selection of features from the House of Ancona. You do not, as a matter of observed fact, have King Ambrosine's jaw and nose, but the painter clearly thought they were an important element of the composition."

"Everyone says I take after my mother."

"Always a safe thing for a courtier to say. That's why they do it."

That sounded like the kind of remark Marguerite used to make, but not explain. Since Marguerite had explained everything she hadn't actually been forbidden to discuss on pain of incarceration that meant it must touch on something Charis really didn't want to dig into. Not tonight. Not after everything. Especially since she strongly suspected even the direct threat of incarceration wouldn't stop the Crown Prince from being indiscreet.

"There's nothing very interesting about me. " That came out sounding rather sulky, which she hadn't intended, especially given how kind he'd been. She thought, belatedly, that he'd probably had rather higher hopes about enjoying his wedding night than she had.

"Well, there's one thing I've found fascinating. And, frankly, baffling. According to Lady Anthea – who, as I've sure you've already spotted, observes all the ladies of the court and passes on her observations to my brother – you spend your time embroidering with white thread on white fabric. What can possibly be the point?"

"The point?" Her voice rose with outrage. "It's white on white work. It's the most complex form of embroidery there is. It takes forever to learn, even when you're using silk on linen, or linen thread on silk, and when you move onto silk on silk or linen on linen that's when it becomes really interesting."

"Interesting?" In the candle-light his brow was furrowed, but he was, amazingly, listening to her with genuine attention.

"Yes. It's so subtle. The only way you can tell what's been worked is by the different lie of the nap of the thread, and so if you look at it from certain angles it's actually invisible. Then you tilt it so's the light's hitting it from another place and it appears. I once – that is – a friend of mine and me, when we'd learned how to do it, we – um –"

She tailed off.

"And how long did it take your embroidery tutor to work out you were passing rude messages to each other in your samplers?"

"How did you - ?"

"Obvious application of the technique. Interesting, though. Definite possibilities. I need to think about this."

He swung his long legs to the floor and strode over to the writing desk.

"This is going to take some time," he tossed back over his shoulder. "I suggest you get some sleep. It would probably enhance my reputation at Court if you emerge looking dead on your feet in the morning, but I'd rather John didn't kill me. Especially since, if he didn't finish me off, I can't guarantee Sarai would patch me up."

She fell asleep to the sound of the scritch of the quill on paper and the Crown Prince's half-audible comments to himself as he wrote.


	4. Chapter 4

"I confess, I find it indescribably refreshing to know that actually _is_ the sound of a fifteen-year-old girl having a temper tantrum in the Crown Prince's quarters."

John said nothing. Happening upon the King parading along the Long Gallery amid a gaggle of courtiers had been unfortunate but, at least, something from which he had expected to escape at the cost of a duty obeisance and the murmur of pressing business elsewhere (and, indeed, not a lie; Sarai's numerous projects in the city had fascinated him since his arrival, even though – despite his tentative advances on that front – Sarai had shown no inclination towards renewing the comforting, undemanding intimacies of their past). Having the King of Gaaldine dismiss all his courtiers and insist on their carrying on the walk _à deux_ had formed no part of his morning's plans.

"What can they be studying today, do you think?"

A crystal ink-pot soared through a gap in the fragile stone-work and shattered on the stone flags just in front of where they were standing. King Mycroft flicked back the hem of his beaver-fur trimmed robe an instant before the ink would have splashed it.

"Well?" His tone changed not an iota. John choked, momentarily, his throat dry.

"Ballistics, I understand, your grace. And trajectories."

"Oh." Two measured paces down the Gallery. "Tell me – John, is it not? – is the Crown Princess considered to be making progress on those subjects?"

Plenty of dutiful, courtier-like responses were ready at his disposal. John had never been a courtier, not really, not at heart.

"Perhaps your grace might venture to form his own judgement as to the Crown Princess's progress, from recent events?"

He glanced over his shoulder, pointedly, at the mess of broken glass and ink on the flagstones.

For a moment he thought he saw the line of the King's upper body stiffen. Then the imperturbable urbanity flowed back.

"I still have a brother. Her grasp of trajectories may not be all you claim."

John smiled. "Or the Crown Prince is, perhaps, very expert at dodging?"

 _That_ he knew to be true, to a certainty. The King's face became coldly formal.

"And the other lessons?"

"Your grace?"

John had spent sufficient time in the army to have the requisite tone polished to an adamantine brilliance. As all C/Os did at this particular juncture, the King sighed and started to explain.

"Over the last eight months the Crown Prince has required his bride to commence the serious study of the art of fence; accompany him on ever more perilous hunting trips (my compliments, by the way on your surgical skill; most strong men suffering that tusking from a wounded boar would _not_ have survived, let alone a young girl) and has, relentlessly, had her taught and tutored her personally in tactics, strategy, pharmacology, trigonometry, cartography and, for all I know, crystallography. As you can imagine, my Court is not short of supplying explanations for my brother's enthusiasm."

"Your grace?" John repeated, with exactly the same inflection.

King Mycroft's expression barely wavered; John's exposed nerve endings knew he might yet come to the dungeons and the glowing irons, even so. Still, he heard the King's welcome, human, unexpectedly exasperated jerk of breath.

"My brother may not care for gossip, but his – ah –unexpected enthusiasm for sharing his bed with the Crown Princess has drawn a certain level of attention. In Court circles."

John tried to tamp down his instinctive reaction. _Unexpected. So – that night so long ago had not ended something, as it had for him, but started it. And how much blame did he carry, for that?_ And then, _Oh Charis, oh my darling dear._

"There are, you should know," the King continued obliviously, "factions in the Court who hold his educational efforts are aimed at attempting to convert his bride to the preferred gender to – ah – keep him amused. Any thoughts on that, Doctor?"

"It seems unlikely. I have never known the Crown Prince undertake any task at which he did not expect to succeed. But, your grace, have you tried asking him yourself?"

The King eyed him. "As you are no doubt aware, 'Lord of the Marches' is traditionally one of the Crown Prince of Gaaldine's minor honorifics. A sinecure, in most cases, usually discharged by a token progress around four or five border castles and an extended stay in the spring and autumn at the palace on the southern lakes. Renowned waterfowling."

"An ague pit in summer," John murmured, feelingly. The King shot him a very telling glance.

"You have the advantage on me there, evidently. In any event, some months ago my brother came to me with a proposal. In – ah – anticipation of likely increased border tensions in the foreseeable future –"

_When the Heir assumes the Throne of Gondal and repudiates the peace treaty._

"- he thought it advisable that the position of Lord of the Marches should become more than honorary. In fact, he suggested taking up more-or-less full-time residence in the Castle of Cavron."

Commanding the narrow defile of the Cavron Gorge and the approach to the Pass of the Eagles. Or, as John had heard it described in innumerable military briefings, Gondal's back door.

"Castle Cavron," John said woodenly.

"Yes," the King said. "A Crown estate. It's too close to the border to offer to a vassal. Of recent years, though, it's been managed by stewards. Do you know, I rather think none of my House has spent a night beneath its roof since my grandfather died there? I do hope the drains have been thoroughly overhauled since his day… .Even seasoned campaign veterans still talk about the speed with which the enteric fever took hold. And left his face so swollen and blackened his own physician could only recognise him by his signet ring. But you'll know all about that, of course, John."

"About what?"

"Oh, I had understood it was one of those notable cases about which every physician has his own pet diagnosis. I've certainly been treated to Sarai's and Milverton's. I look forward to hearing yours one of these days. But – be that as it may – the Crown Prince takes the view that if Princess Charis is to be chatelaine of the Castle of Cavron in the turbulent times ahead, she needs the skills necessary to sustain the place through a siege. Even should he chance to be absent."

Half of him recoiled at the thought of Charis commanding a castle under siege; the other half gloried at the Prince's blazing faith in the girl. King Ambrosine had always been fond of her, in his own vague, amiable way, but had never got over his disappointment at her sex. Charis could hardly have missed realising as much. For the Crown Prince, who notoriously suffered fools not at all, and classed ninety per cent of the human race thus, even to think of training her for command of one of Gaaldine's great strategic fortresses – that alone would have been worth leaving Gondal for.

But – the Cavron Gorge and the Pass of the Eagles -

His heart lurched, recalling a reconnaissance expedition from almost half-a-lifetime ago; two young, highly irregular reconnaissance scouts, perched up among the rocks above the pass, reading amid the scattered torches assembling far below them in the shadow of the Castle an unmistakeable message.

_Gaaldine marches on Gondal._

And another message, too. He recalled Sherlock's voice, in the dark, utterly calm and uninflected.

"I gave my parole. Whatever my grandfather chooses to do, I must return to King Ambrosine and redeem Gaaldine's honour, whatever the cost."

So young, so gallant and the shadow of death upon him; how could any moralist consider what followed a sin – the urgent, frantic tangle of limbs, hot kisses and hotter need, two years of aching restraint, secretive glances, guilty, stolen touches and bitter-sweet longing melting into liquid desire amid the cold rocks.

It was odd, he had thought many times since, that Sherlock, who had slept so little and so uneasily on all their previous scouting and hunting expeditions, should have dropped into so deep a sleep when they were done, even while the columns of spiralling torches advancing up the road to the rendezvous were weaving a rope for his throat. He had not even stirred when John had dropped a final kiss on his brow, rolled out from beneath their shared cloaks in the darkest hour before the dawn, and stolen down across the border into Gaaldine to perform a miracle.

The door to the Crown Prince's apartments burst open. The Crown Prince strode out. He showed no surprise at seeing either John or the King.

"There's a skewbald horse ridden by a man clad all in green coming hard down the road from the north. "

"A skewbald with two white forefeet. You said that was important." Charis emerged from behind the Crown Prince. He caught her by both hands and spun her round, laughing.

"Indeed it is. If you really saw it."

"The Princess has always had excellent eyesight," John said.

"How fortunate she missed the nearsightedness which has troubled the house of Ancona in recent generations," the King said, silkily.

The Crown Prince turned to face his brother. John tensed as he saw the glee drain from Sherlock's face.

"You know," he said flatly.

The King shrugged. "Pigeons. So much less melodramatic than – circus horses. Suppose the designated skewbald with the two white forefeet had thrown a strain in the stable overnight?"

Sherlock's eyes were unnaturally bright, his teeth chewing arrhythmically at his lower lip. "And suppose the pigeons had been snatched by the pair of peregrine falcons which roost on the West Tower top? Anyway, you do know. Don't you?"

Charis looked from the Crown Prince to the King; shoulders tense.

"Know what?" she enquired.

The Crown Prince's face changed; as if, John thought wryly, he had only just been made aware of some crucial fact and was furious with himself for not having accounted for the possibility of its existence.

"King Ambrosine is dead," he said flatly, and then, abruptly, without any pretence at warning dropped to his knees before Charis and forced his large hands between her smaller ones. "I now do formally renew the treaty pledges of offence and defence to Gondal, and to its lawful monarch."

She held his hands for the briefest time, then dropped them to look up and across his tousled head at John, her eyes wide and desperate. As if there were only the two of them in the Long Gallery, he strode across to her, dropped to one knee and raised her right hand to his lips.

"Your grace," he murmured. "My queen. To the death."

Then, in one smooth movement, he rose to his feet, and favoured the King and the Crown Prince with one cold glance.

"Her grace the Queen of Gondal has had bad news. As her physician, I advise her to retire and compose herself in solitude. Once she has done so, she will be able to confer with your graces on the question of the Pretender. Until then -"

He put his arm around Charis and led her to her quarters.

……………

"How could I have known she was going to take it that way? We've been awaiting the death of the King of Gondal for months. The Master of the King's music has been driving the Abbey choir to distraction in case his new setting of the Requiem isn't ready on time. It could hardly have come as a surprise to her; in fact, the only surprise is that he held out so long."

"Your grace – Sherlock - I'm giving you advance warning _now_ that the next time you say anything that suggests in the smallest degree that the Princess Charis overreacted to the way you and your brother informed her of King Ambrosine's death I shall do my level best to punch your nose out through the back of your skull."

"Which will do what, precisely?"

"Well, at the very least, it should clear up any lingering confusion you may have as to the difference between a _surprise_ and a _shock_."

The Crown Prince exhaled. His hand went up to finger the puffy, blackening lump above his left eye.

"Don't fiddle with that," John snapped automatically.

"Yes, _thank you_ , you are not my physician, Sarai is."

"I'm sure she said exactly the same thing."

"Well, apart from an irrelevant observation about how useful the Princess would have been on something she called her "creeve-ball" team all summer, had she only known, yes. Look, I was actually trying to apologise at the moment she threw the vase –"

"In your own inimitable style, doubtless. Did you mention the Requiem, by any chance?"

"Possibly – in passing – but even that hardly justified her screaming that she'd annul our marriage and go home to Gondal –"

"Well, fortunately for you, however insensitive and boorish a husband may prove in a crisis, canon law doesn't consider that valid grounds for annulment. And she must know the Pretender would have her assassinated as soon as she crossed the border, anyway."

"I mentioned that. She said, 'Better dead than married to you.'"

John, despite himself, giggled. Charis might be a married woman and, on one legal theory at least, the rightful Queen of Gondal, but part of her was still a teenage girl indulging in an epic sulk. And the Crown Prince – motherless from an early age, sisterless and without any close female relatives – seemed utterly at sea about how to cope. Even though – if John remembered rightly – his own capacity for sulking was second to none.

The Crown Prince glared at him, then permitted a slight, reluctant grin to lift the corner of his mouth.

"Look, John, you have to help me. The King is furious –"

"About the threat to his foreign policy, presumably. He was hardly behaving like a model of tact and sensitivity himself."

"Well, obviously. But somehow it's all my fault."

"My sister tells me that's what a husband's for. Being blamed. And she's very good at blaming. Clarence has my sympathies."

"Did Clarence tell you anything useful about how a husband can dissipate blame once he's incurred it?"

"Very expensive presents, I gather."

Sherlock brightened. "Really? In that case, follow me."

He scuttled in the wake of Sherlock's long strides through the Palace, suppressing his irritation at the indignity imposed by his formal, mourning robes, so unsuitable for anything resembling haste. He found himself, gaping a little, in the squat, solid, heavily guarded tower which, together with its rumoured labyrinthine cellars, housed the Royal Treasury.

Sherlock nodded, curtly, at the guards. "Thank you. Bring the master of the treasury to wait upon me in an hour."

The guards gaped but, clearly, lacked the hardihood to forestall the Crown Prince. They looked as if they would liked to have detained John, but he whisked through the tiny, iron-bound door in the ten-foot thick wall so hard on Sherlock's heels they missed their chance.

Torches stood ready in iron brackets. Sherlock lit a couple and began stalking around, opening chests and cupboards with keys from the bunch he produced from some inner recess in his clothing. Some faint part of John's mind clanged a warning bell; surely he'd last seen those particular keys in the hands of the King? But minor alarms faded into nothing under the absolute cacophony of outrage when Sherlock produced a tiara of rubies and diamonds from a casket and announced with an air of deep satisfaction that it looked like just the thing.

"Just what thing?" John demanded, even though he had a horrible sense he knew the answer.

"For Charis."

For a moment John's sense of outrage actually deprived him of the power of speech.

"That's the Mezentian Coronet. You can't go purloining the heirlooms of Gaaldine simply to paper over the problems caused by your complete absence of tact. Quite apart from anything else, the kingdom would be bankrupt in a week."

"Thanks for your faith in me."

"I'm being realistic. Anyway, you can't possibly give Charis coloured stones. Not when she's going to be in deep mourning for the next six months."

"Oh, damn. I loathe mourning, and not only will I have to look at her wearing it, I suppose I'll have to make the effort, too."

"If you'd made the effort a bit earlier that might have helped with Charis, too. And caused less of a scandal in the Court this morning." He looked pointedly at Sherlock's wine-red doublet. "After all, by the same token as the Requiem, you can hardly claim the need for mourning took you by surprise. And King Ambrosine was, after all, your father-in-law."

"Notionally."

The clipped, single word hit him with unexpected force; almost, he felt the tower walls shifting and crumbling around him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"King Ambrosine and Queen Felicia had been married for ten years without issue by the time Charis came along. Shortly before the Crown Princess's birth, you, John, left the court of Gondal to take up a position as surgeon-general in the Army of Gondal – a position for which you were eminently well-suited in everything but age, you being at least a decade younger than the next youngest candidate – and remained in the field for the next five years. You only returned to court once you were invalided out of the Army. Five months later the Queen died in the course of miscarrying a son. The inference is moderately obvious."

"You never said anything."

"And I wouldn't be saying it now if we weren't alone in the most heavily guarded tower in the Palace. Though, as we'll all have to deal with the Pretender and his agents saying it from now on, you might try practising not looking like a guilty rabbit if you happen to overhear it."

"And what about Charis?"

"What _about_ Charis? Though even his worst enemy would hardly stoop to describing King Ambrosine as a genius –"

"He was a shrewd and competent occupant of the throne of Gondal –"

"He had a knack for choosing the right man for any given job and the sense to leave him to get on with it. Which, incidentally, probably _explains_ Charis."

"About the bit earlier, when I promised to punch your nose out through the back of your skull -?"

"Repented the urge, have you?"

"Rather the contrary, actually."

"Oh." Sherlock considered for a moment, and then knelt besides a chest. "There should be something here – ah, yes."

A treble-stranded rope of pearls slithered between his fingers, like the white ribbons of water which tumbled ceaselessly down Gondal's hill-sides, in snow-melt.

"This can certainly be worn in mourning. Would she like it, do you think?"

For a moment, he looked uncertain, lost. Ridiculous as it seemed, his expression caused a stutter of protectiveness to rise up in John's chest.

He nodded. "Yes. She'll like those. Especially – " He hesitated. Sherlock rocked back on his heels and looked up at him. The fierce, erratic glow of the torches set his cheekbones into almost indecent relief. His eyes were deep, hungry pits.

"Oh, God," John said, incoherently, and stumbled across the rough stone floor, dropping to his knees beside Sherlock. "Oh, God."

Sherlock's lips captured his; long hands reached up to burrow in his hair, down to cup his arse.

"We can't – we mustn't – "

"Alone in the most guarded tower in the Palace, remember?" The rough, breathy edge beneath the smooth purring tones sent spikes of fire along his nerves; for a moment he sniffed the clear frosty air of the Pass of the Eagles; the torches were those of half a lifetime ago.

"That's not what I meant –"

"Please, John. Please. You have no idea how much I missed you." He wrapped his arms tightly round John's chest, as if anchoring himself.

"You think not?" he breathed. The chill of the stone floor set up a nagging, persistent ache in his old leg wound. Trivial, though, compared to the pain in his chest; an agonising wound which threatened to deprive him of the power to breathe. He breathed in Sherlock; hauntingly familiar even after so long, felt Sherlock's heart thumping in rhythm with his own.

"You _left_ me." Petulant tone, not quite masking a well of hurt.

John sighed. "I was away barely three weeks. When I returned, you'd gone back to Gaaldine."

"What option did I have? The head of palace security was convinced my grandfather had been assassinated at Gondal's instigation – if he'd found a shred of evidence it _would_ have been war. Everything moved so fast - leading the peace mission must have been the most exercise Mycroft's ever taken in his entire life. The Palace to Castle Cavron in less than two days; four hours in Castle Cavron and then straight on to Gondal." The fierce grip round his body tightened. "I didn't even know he was in the country until the door to my dungeon opened five days later and he told me we were to ride for the border immediately. I had no chance of getting a message to you, even if I'd known where you were."

John's heart almost stopped, then raced. "I thought you'd thought better. That you'd –" Words failed him once more.

"Regretted? _Repented?_ Believed the priests? What kind of fool do you take me for, John? I thought I had less than a week to live but I wouldn't have traded that night for fifty more years. Have you any idea how long – "

He broke off. John's heart felt it might almost crack for the sheer pity of things. He reached out to stroke the Crown Prince's dark tangle of hair.

"Charis," he murmured. Whatever his own desires, things had changed irrevocably between them. There were some dangers no longer solely theirs to run; other hearts besides theirs to be broken.

"What -?"

"You were wrong, earlier. It wasn't some – calculating piece of statecraft on King Ambrosine's part. He didn't know –"

He stumbled to a halt, caught, as ever in the old conundrum. _Had_ the King known? The night before he'd left to join the armies he'd summoned the courage to ask Felicia but the Queen had laid one delicate forefinger across his lips, commanding his silence.

"You loved her." Sherlock's voice was very quiet, even in the intense hush of the treasury tower.

John nodded. "I loved her and in the end I killed her."

"You can't save everyone, John. Not even you."

"Perhaps not. But, God willing, I'll save Charis."

"From what? No, on second thoughts, don't answer that question. Not even in the most guarded tower in the Palace. Especially since we are, I believe, about to be no longer alone."

He rose to his feet with his characteristic grace, leaving John cold and somehow bereft, still crouched awkwardly on the stone floor beside the chest. And then he saw who was entering the tower behind the flustered, scurrying figure of the master of the treasury. His leg had stiffened; he cursed under his breath as he struggled to his feet.

The King of Gaaldine barely acknowledged his flurried, awkward attempt at a bow. His eyes were fixed on his brother.

"Already?" Sherlock said.

The King nodded. "A string of farms along the borders raided and burnt out over the last four days. Attributable to bandit activity, of course."

"Of course. Aiming to provoke a response against the mountain strongholds in the debateable lands. Which can be represented an act of aggression on Gaaldine's part. Boring and predictable."

"Also effective. We cannot decline to aid our subjects n the border marches. And there is also the matter of this morning's assassination attempt on the Crown Princess."

" _Charis_? Why the hell didn't you tell me –"

Sherlock's glare silenced John before he could commit any further breach of protocol.

"Assassination attempt is putting it too strongly. We caught one of the bedmakers with poison on her. But I'd been aware for some time she was in the pay of the Heir of Gondal, and she's been pretty closely watched. Also, I did warn Charis. We do talk to each other." He glanced down at the rope of pearls which was now wrapped around his forearm. "Well, mostly."

The master of the treasury followed the direction of his glance and gulped.

"Ah, you've been choosing a gift to our sister the Queen of Gondal to mark her accession," the King observed. "A surprisingly well-considered choice, all things considered. If erring, perhaps, towards the overly modest."

He crooked his finger towards the master of the treasury. "Open that casket, please."

At the reappearance of the Mezentian Coronet, John was hard pressed to stifle a fit of hysterical laughter. He dare not meet Sherlock's eye.

"Coloured stones," the Crown Prince observed, with an air of critical detachment. "However fine they are, aren't you forgetting that Charis will be in deep mourning for the next six months?"

For a moment John thought he saw a flicker of annoyance flash across the King's face, though perhaps that might be the torchlight.

"This, too, will pass. And, even if it happens within the next six months, even King Ambrosine himself would hardly object were the Queen of Gondal to wear it when she enters the citadel at the head of the army of liberation."

Sherlock's face was suddenly transformed. "You agree, then?"

The King gestured towards the coronet and the rope of pearls. "Not my agreement that's needed. But you leave for Castle Cavron in the morning."

As they emerged into the sudden, unexpected sunlight, Sherlock thrust his clenched fist up into the air.

"Life at last."

"War. At last."

"That's what I said. Let's go and tell Charis the good news."


End file.
